I Want You
by Libby Love
Summary: Sherlock and John visit a restaurant, and through their usual banter John's deepest secret is revealed. Although John worries he's lost everything, including an intimately close friendship with the man he secretly loves, is there a chance his feelings are mutual?


Sherlock was sitting in a partial mediation pose, eyes heavily lidded so that only a slice of light was visible to him through the black fringe of his lashes.

"John," he called softly, lips barely parting for the word to come out.

The one whom Sherlock called was flopped unceremoniously onto a dilapidated old couch in their flat, snoring with a passion.

Sherlock squinted his eyes impossibly more in annoyance, eyebrows knitting. "John!"

In response Dr. Watson let out a roar of a snore and flipped in his sleep, so that his back was to the irritable Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock took two calming breaths, and then his catlike eyes opened completely. They were brilliant, his eyes—at times like a fathomless ocean with rolling sapphire waves, bottomless and endless. A person could drown in that stare, fatally seduced by the seeming docile waters. In the next second the seas in his irises would morph into unbreakable chips of shale, icy grey and sharper than a knife tip. And finally they would become emerald and poisonous, like the venom of some exotic viper.

John Watson knew the transformations that his best friend and flatmate's eyes performed. And somehow, even deep in his slumber, he could feel that gaze searing into him: a beam of annoyance.

His dream slowly faded away, and he became aware of Sherlock's quiet cigarette inhales and the noise that Mrs. Hudson was making banging around downstairs. Maybe, if he pretended to still be asleep, Sherlock would forget whatever it was he so desperately wanted to tell John? John lay impossibly still, dampening his own breathing to what he suspected was an acceptable pace for someone blissfully at rest.

There was a snort, not quite contemptuous, but indeed adjudicating, from the direction in which Sherlock was seated.

"John, stop trying to pretend you're asleep. The only person you're fooling is the spider that is currently crawling up your left arm."

Dr. Watson jumped violently to his feet, shaking and gyrating in his attempts to dislodge the "spider" from his person. He stopped suddenly, noticing Sherlock's mildly amused expression. "There…is no spider, is there?"

"No."

John sank back into the chair, glaring apprehensively at the tall, attractive man with the calculating mind that watched him. "The only person I _wasn't _fooling was you. I can never fool you."

Sherlock shrugged. "Nobody can. It was obvious you were conscious from the moment your left hand began to twitch in such a suggestive manner. You didn't think I could see of course, you had it behind in quite the awkward position draped backwards over your stomach. Still, I could see the movement of your muscle. Oh, my good John; you've been asleep exactly nineteen minutes, putting you at the cusp of Stage 3 NREM. In this stage, most hypnic myoclonia is over with and movement is very minimal. You were not asleep long enough, obviously, to have entered REM so the unexplained movement of your eyes beneath your closed lids was very apparent."

John crossed his arms over his chest huffily. "Well, maybe I was trying to go _back_ to sleep."

The bigger man inspected his fingernails boredly. "No, I doubt that. You haven't eaten since nine this morning, and judging by the fact that it's almost seven o'clock you were planning that I'd forget whatever it was I needed to speak to you about and you could slink off partially unnoticed. But," he said, leaning in towards John, "I never forget." He blinked, and his eyes were blue when they opened again. "Ever."

John scrambled to stand, dusting off imaginary dirt from his shirtfront. "Well," he said, forcing a smile, "You were right about me being hungry. I think I'm going to go grab a bite—"

"I was _right_ about everything." Sherlock interrupted drily.

"Yes," John said, grinding his teeth, "Give yourself a pat on the back. That is, if you can reach over your shoulder without your _enormously inflated head_ getting in the way."

"I have long arms, shouldn't be an issue."

"What do you want?" John asked, partly yelling in exasperation.

Sherlock rose in one swift and seamless movement, so fast that John stumbled back in surprise. He was like a predator, John thought grudgingly as he found his footing again, lethal and agile and ruthless and seemingly heartless.

_Seemingly, _John reminded himself. He remembered the pain in Sherlock's eyes when John had last brought home a girlfriend on a night that conflicted with their weekly chess game. (Not that it was as much of a game as a domination on Sherlock's part. So John'd gotten a little tired of the fact that he hadn't and never would win a game. So what? It was just _one game.)_ And yet…Sherlock had seemed so crestfallen, and behind his unbreakable mask of indifference appeared a palpable spark of hurt. It came quickly and passed even more abruptly, but despite its transience it was there. And very plain. And it was possible to deduce that despite his toughness, Sherlock Holmes was a man, and a man who felt like any other man.

"You're hungry, I'm bored, and so I feel this is a good time to embark on an adventure."

"_What?_" John hiccupped.

"A food finding adventure, persay. Pick the restaurant."

John found himself speechless for a second before regaining composure. "Sherlock,"

"I suppose that is my name, yes."

"Sherlock, you've invited me to go out and eat."

Sherlock nodded, eyes never leaving John's, and said very slowly as if John was stupid: "Yes, John. Good deducing."

"Is this…a date?"

Sherlock's expression turned to one of puzzlement. For one heartstopping moment, Sherlock Holmes could not seem to think of a proper response. His mouth tipped open ever so slightly, and the color of his eyes became clouded by confusion. "I'm…I'm just asking you to eat, alright? Let's go." He moved quickly to the door, wrenching it open and grabbing his coat and scarf all in one wild movement before John could hear him banging down the stairs, away from 221B.

John was completely befuddled as he carefully buttoned his coat, smoothed down his hair and stuffed his wallet down his breastpocket. He was still befuddled as he walked down the stairs and out into the cool London air, and still befuddled as he joined Sherlock to wave down a taxi at the curb—he never trusted those things since A Study in Pink—and by the time they pulled up alongside the cheery front of a homey British pub called the Innkeeper's Dog, he thought perhaps he would be perpetually befuddled by this strange man with the handsome mop of dark hair and the changing eyes.

The hostess at the door smiled welcomingly at them; perhaps more so to Sherlock, heavily lined eyes flashing brightly as she gave him a one-up and led them, sashaying, towards a corner booth lit dimly by a radiant dripping crystal chandelier. (It wasn't real crystal, Sherlock had to point out. You could tell by looking at the light reflection the density wasn't the same.)

They slid onto the shiny faux leather seats across from each other, and their waitress by the name of Emily passed them neat little fold out lacquered menus.

"Can I start you two off with some drinks?" she asked a pleasant monotone.

"Um, I'll have a water please," John said, smiling briefly up at her before returning his attention to the many tempting dishes and back to his (befuddled) thoughts.

"Oh that's no fun," Sherlock informed John, and waved off the girl's scribbling. "We'll both take a chardonnay."

"No, we won't," John countered, folding his menu, "I'll take a water. Get him what he wants."

Sherlock grinned (Sherlock grinning looked kind of like a diseased Cheshire cat, all scrunched and painful. It wasn't a common expression on his carved features.) "Actually, I believe I just said two chardonnays, forget the water."

Emily scratched out a line and wrote again, brows furrowed.

"Don't listen to him," John told the waitress, glaring at Sherlock. "I'm having a water. No chardonnay."

"Chardonnay."

"Water."

"_Chardonnay!"_

"Water!"

"CHARDONNAY!"

"WATER!"

At this point, the poor girl had torn off five separate sheets of paper and in a fit of annoyance, she threw them at the ground and stamped on it. Both men, who'd been leaning towards eachother with each word, glanced towards her in surprise.

"Two waters and two chardonnays it is. You two, get a room." And with that she stomped away.

Sherlock sat back, crossing his arms. "Not very professional at all. I think I shall complain to the manager—"

"Sherlock, _we_ were the ones arguing. It's not her fault."

Sherlock put his fingertips together and leaned forward, eyes silvery. "So I wanted to talk to you about the case. I found five point two good leads, and I was planning on sharing at least four of them with Lestrade."

"That's what this is about?" John inquired, heart sinking for some horrible reason.

"What what is about?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"This!" Dr. Watson said, gesturing around to his surroundings madly. "The restaurant! The talking!"

"Of course. What else would it be?"

There was an awkward pause in which nobody spoke. "I…I'm not sure," John finally intoned, balling his napkin in his hand. "Why five point two, anyway?"

"Well," Sherlock responded, still looking unusually peeved about the past five minutes, "Two I actually picked up by sorting through Anderson's stuff, so I can only really acknowledge them as decimals in comparison to my big fat whole numbers."

"'Sorting' through Anderson's stuff? Sherlock, what were you really doing?"

The detective shrugged nonchalantly and took a sip of the water that their waitress placed before him.

"Oh, so after all that fuss you want the water not your precious chardonnay?" John asked tauntingly.

"You're right, any mention of Anderson makes it entirely possible to hold a conversation without the additive of alcohol. Also you, my dear John, are rendering me entirely headached."

"I'm the one rendering _you_ headached?"

"Will you two _take_ your lovers' quarrels out of this restaurant and into a more suitable place? I suggest a locked cupboard or a bedroom? Really, it's me who's got the headache!" yelled Emily and slammed down John's water before stalking away.

"Really," Sherlock said in a slightly quizzical tone, "She is quite unprofessional."

"Like you should talk!" John began. "Here you go again about Anderson! He's an idiot and a right boggard, but Sherlock you're simply ridiculous about him! He's a detective like you and you should be more civilized. Towards everyone." He added viciously.

Sherlock snorted and picked up the delicate stem of his wineglass, tipping the liquid within towards his lips. "One, I'm perfectly civilized. Two, he's as much a detective as you are a jar of horseradish!"

Yet again there was another awkward pause.

"Horse…radish?"

"First thing that popped into my head," Sherlock snapped and dripped a bit of chardonnay on his blazer. He dabbed at it daintily before muttering "Damn this," and downing his entire goblet.

"What _were_ you doing rooting around in Anderson's stuff?"

"I was looking for some information about a certain complaint made to the chief about my…my…behavior."

"See? Others think you're uncivilized as well," John said, driving his point home and sitting back proudly.

"Can I finally take your order?" Emily asked, returning somewhat apprehensively.

"Yes," John told her politely, "I would like a salad, please. The house."

"Dressing?" she questioned, scrawling boredly on her paper.

"Um—"

"Spicy Cajun." Sherlock informed her.

"Will you STOP trying to order for me? Stop pretending you know what I'm thinking!"

"I do know what you're thinking!"

"No you do not!"

"Yes I do!"

"If you did you would know how I feel about you! You would pick up on the cues and you would see that I'm in love with you!"

As soon as the words were out of Dr. John Watson, M.D.'s mouth, he instantly regretted them. Sherlock's face had never seemed so readable. Holding back the sudden tightness in his throat and chest and the sudden flow of warm tears at his eyes, John threw down his napkin and stood up.

"Thank you…"

"Emily," the waitress told him, slightly shocked.

"Yes," he agreed numbly. "Emily. Thank you for your trouble, you may take an order from my…my…the man here, but I unfortunately must be going."

She nodded mutely and gave him an uncomfortable little frown. He walked briskly away from the table, away from the pub, away from Sherlock Holmes.

He was no longer befuddled as he wandered, aimlessly, the streets of sleepy London: but instead, simply empty.

Not sad, not angry, not emotional at all: just empty. Like a shell without a being within, cast away by the waves and washed up drearily on the shore to be bleached and burned in the harsh sun.

He obviously had no intention of returning to 221B that night, or perhaps any night. What friendship they had had, what brotherhood they had shared, he had ruined.

He had told Sherlock the one thing he hoped would _never _be brought to the light: his true feelings. His true…_romantic _feelings. And like a shell on the beach under the sun, when he'd been brought to light the very thing he'd hoped would not happen did. He was helplessly scorched, and despite his doctoring background he was incurably wounded.

He kicked at a beer bottle in the alley he wandered down, and rotten fluid spewed out and infected the small space with a permeating foul odor.

John pinched his nose, the breeze whistling in his ears and the whisper of cars in the street beyond singing to him. Suddenly the whisper began to become more insistent, louder and more roaring. In the blink of an eye a very frustrated looking cab driver pulled into the alley, aided by the directions of a tall man grudgingly wearing a deer stalker.

Before any real thought or notion could cross John's mind, this man popped out of the car after passing over a slip of money to the driver, and the cab was gone: speeding away towards the not so distant pinprick of streetlamps on the city road.

The detective strolled towards Dr. Watson, and with a scowl on his face John backed a step up for every step Sherlock took.

"What do you want?" he asked Mr. Holmes, eyes shifty.

Sherlock said nothing, only stepped forward.

John stepped back.

Sherlock stepped forward.

"I asked you what you want. I know you probably don't want to share the flat with me anymore, that's fine. Find yourself another ordinary to have as a live in, I don't care. I'm off." John didn't know what exactly he was saying, but it felt right. He turned his back to the detective, trying to hide the tears that freely streaked down his cheeks but suddenly hands were on his shoulders, turning him back to face the one he'd tried to abandon.

Softly Sherlock took his fingertip and traced over a tear line, pulling up the wet finger and inspecting it.

"Yeah," John said, "that's a tear. Humans cry. Real humans cry. I dunno if you're one of them Sherlock but I am. Real humans hurt, too. I'm hurt."

Sherlock replied by gently reaching out and stroking a lock of John's hair away from his face. And then he bent and ever so gently, tenderly, pressed his lips against John's.

They were warm and tentative but yet cold and sure, Sherlock's lips. And they tasted right in every way.

And then John found himself feeling that strange kind of befuddlement again as the kiss turned more passionate.

Was this real? Was it another dream? John's heart and mind raced, each for different reasons.

Sherlock was like water to John when he didn't even know he was dying of thirst. He was like food to John when he hadn't even been aware he was starving.

He was shelter in chill, he was light in darkness.

He was a star in the black heavens, the _only_ star.

He was right when everything seemed wrong.

When they finally pulled away, Sherlock's eyes weren't blue or green or grey. They were only a glassy reflection of John's astounded face. Full with John and John alone.

"You asked me what I wanted." Sherlock said. "I want you."


End file.
